THE TRANSFORMATION KILLINGS (1998)
It was thought to be a prank, the work of an artist with a strange of humor and too much time on his hands. But it was much, much worse.
New York's Lower East Side, Friday, April 3rd, 8:00 p.m. Traffic on East River Drive, near the Manhattan Bridge, was brought to a standstill when two statues suddenly appeared in the thoroughfare. They were fully clothed. A maintenance crew was quickly dispatched to remove them.
Soho, Saturday, April 4th, 11:30 p.m. Gregory Wilkins, 56 and homeless, had just fallen asleep under the Williamsburg Bridge when a scream awakened him. He gasped at what he found: a statue in the form of a sleeping woman. It was dressed in torn, faded clothing. Next to it was a rickety shopping cart filled with the odds and ends that a homeless woman just might collect. A panicked Wilkins grabbed his few belongings and ran away.
East 20th Street and Avenue C, Sunday, April 5th, 10:00 p.m. For the third time in just over 48 hours, a maintenance crew was called in to move a statue that had mysteriously appeared. This time, police were dispatched as well.
I arrived at the I.N.S. offices at 9:00 Monday morning, April 6th. The first person I saw was Liza, our young and sprightly receptionist.
“Good morning, Miss Liza! And how are you this fine Monday?”
“My,” she exclaimed, “aren't you in a good mood!”
“And why shouldn't I be? I just had the most marvelous weekend.”
She giggled. “I should have guessed from that twinkle in your eye. Anybody I know?”
“I doubt that—unless your work history includes something you'd never put in a resume.”
“And I thought your money went to informants.”
“She is an informant, but it's not her only job.”
Liza shook her head with an indulgent smile. “Anyway, Tony wants to see you.”
“Geez! Am I in trouble already?”
New York is the fourth city in which I've worked for Anthony Albert Vincenzo, whose weight far exceeds his journalistic talents. He was my editor in Las Vegas, Seattle, Chicago, and now the Big Apple. His “edits” often entailed crumpling up my stories and throwing them in the trash. Alas, there is no such title as “Crumpler-in-Chief.” I knocked on his office door and walked in without waiting for a reply.
“Ah! Carl, there you are.”
“Figured that out all by yourself, did you?”
“Carl, please. It's Monday morning.”
“Boy, you're just a fount of breaking news. So, you wanted to see me?”
“Yes, I have an assignment for you.” He handed me a sheet of paper.
I looked it over. “Are you kidding? This isn't news.”
“Sure, it is. It's lighthearted; a human-interest story.”
“Terrific. A vampire stalking Las Vegas: not news. A 144-year-old strangler in Seattle: not news.”
Tony's eyeballs went skyward. “Mama mia.”
“A zombie, a werewolf, a swamp monster, a headless biker, space aliens: not news. But some sculptor with a weird sense of humor placing statues in Lower Manhattan: Pulitzer Prize material, by god. Thank you so much, Vincenzo!”
“Just cover the damned thing and stop yelling, will you please?”
I snapped my fingers. “So that's it! Over the weekend, you were visited by three spirits: Jack Daniels, Jim Beam, and Captain Morgan. You're a drunken Scrooge, Mr. Vincenzo.”
“If working with you doesn't make a man drink, I don't know what would. Now get the hell out of my office and do your job!”
I stormed out of his office and past the reception desk. Liza, who must have heard our shouting match (even through the closed door), said, “A vampire in Las Vegas?”
I replied, “Frank Langella was terrific in that film.”
“Who's Frank Langella?”
Didn't I say she was young?
It struck me as odd that the police had been called in to investigate something purportedly innocuous, so I phoned the N.Y.P.D. and asked for the investigating officer.
A woman with a husky contralto said, “Detective Fontayne.”
“Hello, Detective. Carl Kolchak, I.N.S.”
She groaned. “I'm going to kill whoever put you through to me. What do you want?”
“I'm calling about an odd series of events from over the weekend. Your name was on the police report.”
“This isn't about the statues, is it?”
“Why yes, it is. I'm supposed to write a story about them.”
She snorted. “Slow news day, huh?”
“Hey, what can I tell you? My editor gives me an assignment, I have to complete it.”
“Yeah, I know how that feels. Honestly, Kolchak, there's nothing to the story. Some weirdo spent the weekend putting up statues. Except for the ones in the middle of East River Drive, he didn't break any laws.”
“So, why was a police detective put on the case?”
Fontayne paused. “Kolchak, there's a call on my other line. I have to go.”
She hung up.
FDR Drive near the Queens Midtown Tunnel, Monday, April 6th, 10:15 p.m. Another statue placement—except this time, it was found behind the wheel of a Toyota Camry with the motor running. For good measure, the transmission was also in gear. The car had run a curb and slammed into a light pole. I heard the call on my police scanner and high-tailed it to the scene. When I arrived, I saw two uniformed cops directing traffic while several others worked under Detective Fontayne's supervision. As I approached her, she was lighting a fresh cigarette from the one she was finishing.
Fontayne saw me and rolled her eyes. “Jesus, Kolchak, don't you ever sleep?”
“I could ask you the same question. So, what happened?”
“Another statue—but this time, our merry prankster used a car.”
“Can I take a look?”
“Go ahead. Just don't touch anything.”
I looked inside the vehicle through the driver's side door. A statue not only sat inside, but had its left hand on the wheel. It held its right arm in front of its face and had an expression of unmitigated terror. Even the eyes seemed to radiate fear. And like the other statues, it was fully clothed. I took pictures of the scene, including the car's license plate, and returned to Fontayne. She was interviewing a nervous-looking young man in a pizza driver's uniform.
I heard him say, “I'm telling you, something was flying in front of that car!”
Fontayne said, “What? Some kind of bird?”
“Man, if that was a bird, it was from, like, six million years ago!”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, for one thing, it didn't have no feathers. And it was pretty big, maybe six feet long. You want to know what it looked like? A baby dragon!”
Pausing, Fontayne said, “A dragon?”
“Well, it didn't breathe fire or nothin'. You know what it did, though? It had these eyes that flashed red, and that's when the car jumped the curb.”
Once she was done with the witness, I approached Fontayne.
She breathed a fatigued sigh. “Yes, Kolchak?”
“A baby dragon, huh?”
“The kid reeks of marijuana. I'll bet he sees a lot of things that aren't there.”
“So how did that statue get into a car? How did it wrap its left hand around the wheel? Why does it look so frightened?”
“Look, I don't know the answer, OK? I'm as much in the dark as you are.”
“I'll give you points for honesty.”
“I have to get back to work. Tell you what, though: give me your card and I'll keep you in the loop.”
I handed her my card. “Are you sure you're a cop?”
The next morning, I called an acquaintance at Motor Vehicles, who ran the Camry's plate for me. Armed with a name and address, I obtained a phone number and called the Fort Lee, New Jersey, home of Roscoe Bennett. His worried wife stated that he had gone into the city the day before and was due back late that evening, but had not yet come home—nor had he answered Mrs. Bennett's phone calls or text messages. She also advised me that she had received a call from Detective Fontayne of the N.Y.P.D. as they had found her husband's car abandoned. So as not to worry Mrs. Bennett even more, I didn't contradict the detective's white lie.
I got on the horn to Fontayne. “What can you tell me about Roscoe Bennett?”
“Only that we found his car last night with a statue behind the wheel. But you already knew that.”
“What's become of all those statues?”
“They're in the evidence locker. Why?”
“Can I see them?”
“Are you nuts? If I let you anywhere near the evidence locker, they'll boot me back down to Traffic Control! What's this all about?”
“I don't think those are statues. I think they're real people who've turned to stone.”
Pausing, Fontayne said, “Boy, those stories I've heard about you are true, aren't they?”
“Well, what's your theory? Do you even have one?”
“Yes! I'm thinking our sculptor is more dangerous than we thought. He might be abducting people and keeping them hostage while he carves their likenesses into stone. I don't have any hard evidence, but my theory is a hell of a lot more plausible than yours.”
If Fontayne wanted hard evidence, I'd get her some. I checked the Internet for random statue placements outside of New York. Bingo! I found stories of numerous incidents dating back several weeks from as far north as New Jersey and as far south as the Caribbean Islands. I spoke with some of the reporters who had written the pieces. Two of them revealed a detail that that they had left out of their stories: eyewitness accounts of a dragon-like monster flying through the air.Armed with both printed stories and recordings of my phone conversations, I went to see Fontayne in person.
By age fourteen, Heather Fontayne was five feet nine inches tall. She took up cigarettes in the hope that it would stunt her growth.It didn't. By the time she graduated, the future policewoman was six-feet-two and a high school basketball star (despite her tobacco addiction). She attended the John Jay College of Criminal Justice at C.U.N.Y. The Department had recruited Fontayne during her senior year. She was now a fifteen-year veteran who had worked her way up from Traffic Control to being a highly respected member of the Detective Division. It was widely believed that Fontayne would one day make Chief of Detectives.
Appearance-wise, she had fluffy blonde hair that hung down to her shoulder blades, her eyes were an incandescent blue, and her impeccable face and body could have been sculpted from porcelain. If she hadn't gone into law enforcement, Heather Fontayne could very well have been a model.
As I walked across the squad room to her office, I could hear the officers present muttering little asides about me: “What the hell is he doing here?” “Who do you suppose he's pestering now?” “Oh, what I'd give to use deadly force on that prick.”
“To protect and to serve,” indeed!
I found Fontayne's office and knocked on her door. Before she could answer, I walked in. (I do that.) She stood next to the open window, blowing cigarette smoke into an outward-facing fan on the sill. Seeing me, Fontanye stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray next to the fan.
“What do you want, Kolchak?”
I held up the sheaf of news items I had printed out. “Something to read.”
As Fontayne skimmed the stories, her mouth hung open. “Jesus! It's happened that many times? Wonder if it's the same person?”
“Still think it's a person, do you?” I produced my portable cassette deck and played an excerpt from my phone conversation with a reporter in Charleston, South Carolina.
He said, “One witness told me she saw some dragon-looking monster flying over the scene right before the statue appeared. I didn't even bother putting that in my story; never would've seen print.”
Fontayne placed the papers on her desk. “You don't expect me to believe those statues are real people who've turned to stone, much less that a goddamned dragon is doing it?”
“I didn't say it was a dragon, but two different people in two different cities hundreds of miles apart claim to have seen something like it.”
She sighed. “I probably shouldn't tell you this, but the statues on East River Drive had wallets on them—complete with money, driver's license, credit cards, you name it. And over the weekend, both people had missing-persons reports filed on them. We also found a wallet on the Roscoe Bennett statue.”
“Ah-ha!”
“'Ah-ha,' nothing! It gives credence to my theory that our sculptor is a kidnapper.”
I slapped my forehead. “What has to happen before you'll take me seriously?”
Fontayne shrugged. “An acquired brain injury, perhaps?”
Roosevelt Island, Tuesday, April 7th, 9:00 p.m. My police scanner went nuts with calls about an unidentified animal engaged with police in Four Freedoms Park. The dispatcher described it as “a huge flying reptile.” I hopped on to the Queesnboro Bridge and was there in minutes.
When I arrived at the locus, the cops were in a shootout—with what looked for all world like a baby dragon. It flapped its wings furiously and strafed the officers. The creature made visual contact with one, and its eyes flashed red. The cop turned to stone! Astonished, I whipped out my camera and frantically snapped photos.
The creature landed on the grass and hissed at length. As the cops shot at it, the monster gazed at one, its eyes flashed red, and a second cop had turned to stone. The creature stuck out its long, forked tongue, flapped its wings, and flew off into the night.
I ran up to Fontayne, placing a hand on her shoulder. Her skin pale as she gasped for breath, the detective gaped silently at me. Her beautiful face was a mask of terror and incomprehension.
“Not now, Kolchak!” She pushed my hand away and ran toward the statues that just moments before had been police officers. I followed suit, hanging back and eavesdropping on them. I heard comments like, “I can't believe what I saw,” “What are we going to tell their families?,” and “What is this, Medieval England?”
A short time later, a city crew appeared and loaded the statues onto their truck. As they drove away, I approached Fontayne. She was somewhat calmer.
I asked, “Ready to believe me now?”
“I don't know what to think.”
“You don't know what to think? You saw the same thing I did. That thing transformed two cops into statues!”
She motioned to my camera. “Did you take pictures?”
“You're not going to confiscate my film, are you?”
She held up the camera, which hung around my neck. “No need to. You left the lens cap on.”
“Oh, for….” I shook my head and walked away.
Fontayne called after me, “Better luck next time!”
The next morning, I visited Columbia University and spoke to Professor Neville Wessex of the Science Department. A balding, bespectacled man of 65, he specialized in herpetology, the study of reptiles.
When I described the creature, Wessex laughed and slowly shook his head. “I must give old Corrigan credit. He really outdid himself!”
“Sir?”
“Oh, please, Mr. Kolchak—if that really is your name. Corrigan and I have played jokes on each other for decades, but never has he been this elaborate before. I presume you're an actor that he hired to wear that ridiculous suit and hat, then come to me and claim you've seen a creature that exists only in mythology.”
“No, really. I'm….”
“No need to continue the charade. Whatever he paid you, you've earned it. Tell Corrigan I said well done!”
My next stop: the office of Dr. Liam Corrigan, the elderly head of Columbia's English Department. He weighed nearly 300 pounds and sported graying red hair over a face and forehead splotched with gin blossoms. He spoke in an Irish brogue.
In response to my description, the professor said, “That sounds very much like a basilisk.”
“A bassa…. What's it called again?”
“Basilisk.” He pulled a dusty hardcover volume off his cluttered bookshelf and, muttering to himself, flipped through the pages. “Ah! Here we go.”
I looked in the book and saw an artist's rendering of a basilisk. It looked similar to what I had seen the night before: about six feet long, two feet tall, covered with scales, four short legs with four clawed toes apiece, a long tapered tail, wings similar to a pterodactyl's, and a smallish head with a sharp beak.
Corrigan explained, “A basilisk is born when a snake hatches a hen's egg. It's called the King of Serpents and can cause death with a single glance.”
“I've heard looking at one turns a person to stone.”
“Certain legends have said that, yes.”
“Does the basilisk have any weaknesses?”
“Yes. He and the weasel are mortal enemies. If they're in one another's presence, each flies into a rage and attacks the other. They won't stop fighting until one is dead. Also, the crowing of a rooster is said to cause the basilisk immediate death. And if a basilisk should see its own reflection—say, in a mirror—it will turn to stone. Poetic justice, I daresay.”
“Dr. Corrigan, you've been very helpful. I thank you, and so does Professor Wessex.”
“Wessex? What does he have to do with this?”
“I have not been completely honest with you, sir. My name is not Carl Kolchak and I'm not a reporter. I am, in fact, a member of New York's burgeoning homeless population. Professor Wessex hired me to come to you like this.”
Corrigan roared with laughter. “That tosser! He truly outdid himself. You did have me going, Mr. Kolchak—of whatever your name is. But of course you're homeless! I should've guessed by your suit. And the hat was a very nice touch.”
“I'll tell him you said that.”
As I exited the office, I heard Corrigan chuckle behind me. “Wessex, old man, at times you do exhibit signs of genius. God, that hat!”
Without knocking, I burst into Fontayne's office. “I found out what that thing was,” and told her about the basilisk.
“Great,” she replied. “So, what do you expect me to do about it?”
“What do you think? We arm ourselves with a chicken, a weasel and a mirror, and we go after the damned thing.”
“Uh-huh. And where would I get a chicken and a weasel? I can't just requisition them from the equipment room.”
“Look, have you noticed a pattern? Each time the basilisk attacks, it happens farther north than the last time. That's been the case ever since the attacks began. That thing is making its way up the Eastern Seaboard. If we don't stop it now, it'll go up to New England, and who knows? Perhaps even Canada.”
Fontayne leaned back in her chair and laced her hands behind her head. “Kolchak, I've been very patient with your wild stories, and you know why? You remind me of my Uncle Darren. Like you, he was a reporter. Like you, he was quirky and eccentric. He was, however, a much better dresser. I loved my uncle possibly more than I loved my dad. Having you around is kind of like having him back. But my patience is limited. So let's get something straight: I will not ask my captain permission to go on a fucking basilisk hunt! End of story.”
“Terrific,” I snarled. “As usual, I'm on own. I was beginning to think you were different than the other cops, but obviously I was wrong. Goodbye, Fontayne. I'm off to find a chicken, a weasel, and good mirror. Come nighttime, I'll be at the East River—just in case you care!”
“I don't,” she replied.
I spent the rest of the day trying to procure a chicken and a weasel. When I finished, it was a still a couple of hours until nightfall. Needing some dinner, I dropped the cages off at the I.N.S. office, which had closed for the day, procured my final piece of equipment (which I brought to the car), and went out to eat.
When I returned, Vincenzo was there, along with Howard Kirschenbaum of the I.N.S. Corporate Office. They were staring at my caged animals.
“Kolchak,” said Vincenzo, “what is this?”
“Looks like a chicken and a weasel. Why?”
“What are they doing in my newsroom?”
“Why do you assume I brought them here?”
“Why do I assume that water is wet? I had a six p.m. meeting with Mr. Kirschenbaum. We walked in here, and those things started screeching at us!”
“You must've scared them.”
“We scared them? Why do you even need those animals?”
“They're to stop the basilisk.”
Tony slapped his forehead. “Dare I ask what 'the basilisk' is?”
“You know that statue story you've had me on? They're not statues; they're real people who've turned to stone. A basilisk is doing it, and I need a chicken and a weasel to stop it.”
“You know what, Kolchak? I don't even care why you think you need those animals. Get them the hell out of here! It's a newsroom, not a petting zoo.”
My eyebrows raised. “Only you would think of a chicken and a weasel as petting-zoo fare.”
“Get them out of here!”
“All right, all right.” I bent over to pick up the cages.
As an incredulous Kirschenbaum witnessed our screaming match, Vincenzo said, “And one more thing. The mirror in the men's room has disappeared. Do you know anything about that?”
“I'll bring it back, Tony.”
“Bring it back? Why take it in the first place?”
“If I can get the basilisk to look at itself in a mirror, it'll turn to stone.”
“Just go, will you please? Go!”
As I exited the office with my cages in hand, I heard Vincenzo tell Kirschenbaum, “This is why I'm on blood-pressure pills.”
Kirschenbaum asked, “Why do you keep that man around?”
“I was hoping you'd know.”
The mirror I borrowed had holes drilled in the top where it was fastened to the men's room wall.I ran a length of heavy string through the holes so I could wear it around my neck. Between the animal cages, my hands were already full. I would start my patrol at the Queensboro Bridge. As I hung the mirror around my neck and picked up the cages, a patrol car flashed its lights and pulled up to me. The officer who occupied the passenger's seat rolled down his window.
“Hey, buddy! What are you up to?”
“Just out for an evening stroll.”
“With all that stuff?”
“Well,I'm a performance artist. This is my latest piece. I call it THE CHICKEN, THE WEASEL, AND THE MIRROR. It's a commentary on mankind's inability to overcome the duality of existential oneness.”
“Why do it here, where nobody's watching?”
I sighed. “The proletariat will never understand art.”
“Well, I sure as hell don't. All right, pal, carry on.”
I carried on to the river's edge and began my search for the basilisk.I had walked northward to the Upper East Side when a car horn beeped. A woman voice's shouted my name. Moments later, I saw someone approaching me. At first, I couldn't see who it was; it was after dark and my eyes are not what they used to be. When she came into view, I saw a beautiful young blonde in work boots, bluejeans, and a C.U.N.Y. sweatshirt.
She smiled and waved at me. “Hi, Kolchak.” It was Detective Fontayne.
“What are you doing here?”
“If I hadn't seen that…. What did you call it again?”
“Basilisk.”
“If I hadn't seen that thing with my own eyes, you'd be in Bellevue right about now.”
“You're helping me?”
Fontanye smiled and gave a shrug.
“Do you have your captain's permission?”
“I'm on my own time.”
“Well, great! How about taking one of these cages? My back is killing me.”
She took the weasel's cage. “Should I even ask where you found them?”
“Probably not.”
We were near East 85th Street when the weasel began to stir. I told Fontayne, “Put the cage down.”
She did. “What's going on?”
“The basilisk is nearby.”
The weasel screeched wildly and thrashed against the walls of its cage. I unlocked the door, setting the beast free. It ran to the river's edge, jumping up and down and clawing the air. I heard a hissing above us as the basilisk appeared over the water. It swooped toward the weasel, which dug its teeth into the monster's neck.
I told the rooster, “Now would be a good time to crow!”
They rolled around in the dirt, locked in a death grip. Both flopped into the water. Moments later, bubbles broke the surface, followed by the basilisk emerging. Its jaws clamped down on the weasel, which hung limp from its mouth. The basilisk came ashore, jerked its head to one side, and spit out the dead weasel.
I warned Fontayne,“ Don't look in its eyes!”
As she averted her gaze, the basilisk lunged at Fontayne. She yelped and fell backward, the creature on top of her. As I ran to help her, I tripped on some debris and onto the mirror. It shattered beneath me. I got up and threw myself onto the basilisk, grunting as I tried to separate it from Fontayne.
I stole a glance at the rooster's cage and shouted, “Crow, damn you!”
The basilisk thrust like an angry bull, throwing me off its back. I landed on my rear end, grabbed a piece of the broken mirror, and held it in front of the monster's face. Its eyes flashed red, turning itself to stone. Through our combined efforts, Fontayne and I pushed the basilisk off of her. I helped her to her feet and we stood there, breathing hard, sweat-covered, and brushing the dirt off ourselves as we gaped at the ossified monster.
Then, and only then, did the rooster crow. I resisted the urge to toss it in the river, cage and all.
The basilisk now resides in the police evidence locker, along with its victims. From time to time, Detective Fontayne visits there. She looks at the statues and cries tears of frustration that their story will never be known. As far as the city leaders are concerned, the victims of the basilisk are still missing persons. That includes the two cops who lost their lives while fighting the beast.
As for me, I'm used to not having my stories told.
